


Choice Blue

by jasminepeony14



Category: Suits (US TV)
Genre: Cancer, F/M, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23300596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasminepeony14/pseuds/jasminepeony14
Summary: Mike quits and disappears.  Donna is not sure how to feel about his replacement.
Relationships: Mike Ross/Harvey Specter, Original Character/Original Character
Comments: 10
Kudos: 177





	Choice Blue

No one talks about it. Not even the morning after, when the news surely has made the rounds. At least, they don’t talk about it in the office or within a thousand feet of the office. It’s something Louis doesn’t even touch, despite the fact it would be the most powerful weapon in his arsenal if he did. Donna is mildly impressed—she hadn’t expected such chivalry on Louis’ part. Just the mere mention of it would’ve finally put a tally in his win column. Snagged him the victory he has salivated and starved after for years. But Louis, a man who used dirty tricks like tissues and literally basked in mud, doesn’t touch it.

Donna is not certain if Harvey is grateful or resentful. If he is relieved that no one examines the wound or if he’s enraged that everyone leaves it to fester. But she doesn’t ask him. Doesn’t even know how to broach the topic. Because it’s taboo for her too. That carefully folded letter sitting on the far right corner of Harvey’s desk. The one HR has long given up on trying to collect and file. The one whose third word is “resign.” Whose last three are, “Sincerely, Michael Ross.”

If there is any semblance of a mourning period, it’s the three and half months that Harvey changes and discards associates like underwear. The first few are from in-house, eager young bucks rearing to get their shot at wrangling in a named partner’s favor. They’re summarily trampled in quick succession, but Donna thinks them better off than the novices who come after. Those boys, still stinking with the stench of entitled ambition and good ol’ boy sentiment, have no inkling of what they’re up against. Of what—who—they’re ceaselessly being compared to. They balk at the expectations levied and steam until they evaporate into indignation. Smugly dissatisfied, Harvey watches them leave and then nonchalantly directs Donna to pull out the next resume on file.

Sometime between the fifth and the seventh victim of Harvey’s purge, Donna devotes a week to solving the problem. She makes dozens of phone calls and calls in countless favors. Manipulates Louis into hiring the most highly recommended PI in town on the firm’s dime. But by eight p.m. Friday, she’s in the same place she was in eight a.m. Monday. Mike’s ex-landlord doesn’t have a forwarding address, only the six hundred in cash Mike paid wordlessly for breaking his lease. Secret contacts at the firm’s rivals confirm that Mike hadn’t been poached, though headhunters had been dispatched. Trevor and Jenny are useless, and Mike’s newer acquaintances are worse than that. And that inept PI—Louis creates brand new expletives to express his displeasure when he gets a jaw-yanking bill and nothing else.

Before leaving for the night, Donna takes a deep breath, holds for it a heartbeat, and then lets it go.

She’s a petite, elfin little beauty, Daphne Vallone. In fact, she’s practically walking crystal, with skin paler than a dove feather and hair the color of sunlight. Her eyes are beyond striking. Framed in by lashes that don’t need any help from Maybelline, they’re a pure, delicate spring blue. Harvey takes one look into that unassuming hue and tells Vallone to take her place in the bullpen. Later, he’ll justify the hire to Jessica using Vallone’s glowing references and fluency in five foreign languages. Donna doubts Jessica believes him. She also knows, however, Harvey doesn’t really care.

Vallone settles in seamlessly, like a fish slipping back into water. But there is no question that she stands out like a pearly betta in a bowl overloaded with goldfish. The other associates, wary and awed, swim around in wide circles and try to decipher this strangely beautiful creature whose Precious Moments smile can utter the particulars of contract law as well as any seasoned corporate shark. She’s disarming with her placid blue, and clients take an instant liking to her honey-toned voice and the way she moves like a swan unperturbed. The same qualities fluster opponents, especially hotshots like Travis Tanner who relish a good proverbial fistfight. He’s confounded on how to deal with Vallone, who battles like a gentry fencer—polite, pristine, and precise.

“I have to say, Harv,” Tanner grumbles, crestfallen after Vallone elegantly sidesteps another of his figurative jabs, “I think I liked the old one better. What happened? I heard the kid ran away in the middle of the night. You forget that to tell him you loved him or something?”

Tanner pays for that when Harvey comes at him with a literal uppercut to the gut.

“Donna, would you please give these briefs to Mr. Specter,” Vallone requests demurely. “And please tell him that if he needs me, I’ll be in the library doing research for the Riverview case.”

“Aren’t you even the littlest bit curious?” Donna blurts out. She cannot contain herself. Tanner, douchebag that he is, had done her a kindness by breaking the taboo. He had smashed a hole in the line that had trapped Donna in for months, and she is ready to make a break for the other side. She had counted on Vallone making some sort of inquiry after Harvey’s spectacle. Surely, she thinks, Vallone will demand an explanation for the breach of etiquette and professionalism she so treasures. But Vallone has said nothing and instead seems content with coasting on to the next piece of business. 

“Curious?” she repeats. “Curious about what?”

“You can’t be serious,” Donna scoffs. “Yesterday’s conference TKO. Don’t you want to know why Harvey took Tanner to the mat?

“I didn’t realize that was a matter that concerned me,” Vallone hums, adjusting her stack of files in the crook of her elbow. Donna blinks.

“In that adorably junior body of yours, there’s a heart, right?” she quips. “That beats and pumps blood? That makes you feel things? About yourself? About others?” Vallone lifts her gaze and smiles pleasantly.

“I’m Mr. Specter’s associate,” she says. “His employee. I’m tasked with handling the work that is beneath is his skill-set and experience, so he can spend his valuable time on more important matters—matters that I am not privy to nor expect to be. I go where I’m needed, Donna, not where I’m not wanted.”

Vallone pivots with the grace of a pirouetting ballerina, and Donna cannot stand how beautiful her eyes are when they catch the light. They are like a December sky on a cloudless day—clear, wide, and so above the barrenness below.

For a moment, Donna believes that Louis will gleefully sympathize with her newfound disdain for Vallone. That belief is based on the presumption that Louis sees Vallone the same way he saw Mike—an extension of Harvey’s over-potent ego—but she discovers just how erroneous her presumption is thanks to dried apricots.

Correction—the Tesla of dried apricot-themed gift baskets. Nigel Nesbitt carries it close to his chest as he leans over Donna’s desk.

“Pardon,” he says amiably. “Is Ms. Vallone in? I stopped by her cubicle, but she wasn’t there.”

“Of course she isn’t,” Louis hisses, charging forward. “She’s on a very important errand.”

“Let me guess,” Nigel drawls. “She’ll be out of the office all day.”

“And possibly tomorrow,” Louis replies viciously, “and the day after that. And the day after that. However long it takes you and your Dumbo ears to fly back to the homeland.”

Over the last two weeks, showdowns like this have become trite and commonplace. A lawsuit filed against their respective clients had necessitated a collaboration between Nigel and Louis, but neither had put much effort into civility. It was left to Vallone, the associate best versed in international law and the only one proficient in Mandurian, to be the voice of sensibility. Donna will give Vallone this much—she can pull off one hell of a balancing act.

“I merely wish to express my gratitude,” Nigel huffs defensively. “It is due to her superb talent that we won and won spectacularly.” Louis gives the gift basket an artic onceover and sniffs superiorly.

“So, what? You bought her shriveled fruit?”

“Haven’t you noticed?” Nigel says, arching a thick eyebrow. “She eats dried apricots every day. I believed them to be her preferred snack. Alas, the break room here never seems to have them in stock. Perhaps that’s why she always brings a little baggie of them from home. I just thought she might like a generous supply to keep here. Her brilliant mind deserves to be properly nourished.”

“The case is over,” Louis barks, “which means the nourishment of her mind, nose, pinky toe and all other body parts is no longer your business. She’s an associate of _this_ firm.”

“A travesty that could soon be remedied.”

“You can’t seriously think Daphne will cross the pond because of a basket of fruit.” Nigel grins with cold cordiality.

“For a basket of fruit, no,” he says, “but a promotion and twice her current salary, she might.” Louis’ face turns an impressively vibrant shade of tomato red.

“Don’t you dare!” Louis warns.

“Ms. Vallone is an ojos azules,” Nigel murmurs nonchalantly. “If you were me, you couldn’t resist either.” Basket in tow, he glides down the hallway, and Louis releases an aggravated yelp.

“Damn straight she’s an ojos azules,” he mutters hotly. “Our ojos azules!”

“Ojos azules?” Donna draws out. “Flashing back to third grade Spanish, are we?”

“Ojos azules,” Louis snaps hurriedly, “one of the rarest cat breeds in the world. They’re named after the intense, incredible blue of their eyes.”

“So,” Donna surmises, “Vallone is a rare breed? Because of her baby blues?”

“Have you ever seen the woman make her case?” Louis says. “She is riveting. Eloquence personified. She turns the law into poetry, Donna. Splendid, magnificent poetry. It’s not just the way she talks. It’s how she carries herself. How she looks at you and _demands_ your support. Your belief. And unless you are a complete and utter soulless dunderhead, you’ll give it to her. So, yeah—Daphne Vallone is a very rare and very prized breed.”

He abruptly turns on his heel and starts up a battle march.

“Where are you going?” Donna calls after him, and Louis shouts back his answer.

“To stock the break room with enough dried apricots to stuff the office until kingdom goddamn comes!”

“We are not cat people.” Harvey doesn’t even patronize Donna with a look up from the small mounds of paperwork spread across his glass coffee table.

“Not now, Donna,” he sighs, as he flips over a sheet of legal pad. Donna merely switches her hips. She has prepared for this, and the timing is ripe, seeing as Vallone is miles from the office. For the third day in a row she has been dispatched on an errand of questionable necessity, while Louis continues to fend off Nigel, who has yet to, as Louis puts, “flap his ears and go the fuck home.”

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about,” she snips.

“I know that it doesn’t have anything to do with the Eichelberger merger,” Harvey replies, “which means ‘not now, Donna.’”

“Yes, now,” she persists. “Because it’s been months, and we haven’t talked about it. We haven’t talked about—the puppy. The puppy ran away. We should’ve talked about it, but we didn’t it. Instead, we got a cat. A pretty cat who has an impeccable pedigree, and when people come over, they go gaga over how cute and friendly she is. But she is still a cat, and we are not cat people, Harvey.”

Harvey flips over another sheet, and, for a moment, the gentle rustling of paper is the only sound in the office. His jaw clenches, and Donna wonders if he is biting back Mike’s name. He hasn’t uttered it since discovering the letter.

“There are perks to having a cat,” he says finally. “Especially an outdoor cat. Just leave out some food and water, and they pretty much take care of themselves.”

“Harvey!” Donna cries. “We have to talk about—“ Harvey slams down his notepad, catapulting a short, ardent gale that promptly topples the piles of briefs. They both stare helplessly at the mess.

“She’s…punctual,” Harvey croaks thickly. “I don’t have to wait for her. She is quiet. I can actually hear myself think. And I haven’t repeated myself in weeks. I tell her something once, and she does it. No questions asked. No arguing.” He pauses to swallow, and then he glances up tiredly. His eyes ache but refuse to break.

“I am not a cat person,” he says, “but, right now, a cat it’s all I can handle.”

Donna answers this with the trot of her stilettos back out the door.

From that day on, Donna waits for Vallone’s expiration date. It’s not that she categorically dislikes Vallone. Hell, if they had met any other way—by a coffee cart, in a boutique, outside a nail salon—Donna may have admired Vallone’s naturally elegant style. Her clean, simple lines. But they hadn’t. And while Harvey has tricked himself into believing comfort can be found in her cool veneer, Donna has never lost sight of what Vallone really is. Or, more accurately, what she isn’t. Who she isn’t. So, she waits.

Yet then, Rachel Zane, drenched in sheer panic, comes racing to the copier to find her.

“I—I am— _so_ sorry,” Rachel pants. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have—I didn’t know—“

“Rachel, Rachel,” Donna cuts in. “What are you talking about?”

“My dad,” she whimpers. “He saw Daphne in court. One of his junior partners was opposing council, and she apparently ran circles around him and got the entire case thrown out. My dad said he was impressed—and my dad’s never impressed. Like hell will freeze over, pigs will fly, Louis and Harvey will dress up and have a tea party first never impressed.”

“I get it, I get it,” Donna assures. “He’s a hard man to please. I still don’t know what you’re talking—“

“He wanted to meet her,” Rachel explains, “talk to her. Tell how amazing she is. And I truly thought that’s all he wanted. So, I introduced him. But…” Rachel sucks in a gulp of air and shakily pushes it out through pursed lips.

“They’re in the small conference room right now,” she says. “He’s offering Daphne partnership if she comes over to his firm.” Her voice floors the accelerator. “I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry. I never would’ve set up the meeting if I had known. I wouldn’t hurt Harvey like that. Not after Mike.”

Donna doesn’t register she is making a beeline for the conference until the room is in sight. Through its glass walls Robert Zane’s confidence is as obvious as a wine stain on white, but Daphne is unreadable, as she peruses what Donna can only assume is a formal, ink on paper offer. She tucks a strand of white blonde behind her ear, and her lips—painted porcelain pink—quirk.

_Don’t_ , Donna readies to scream. _Don’t._ Jessica beats her to the punch.

“Robert,” Jessica says, strutting in, “I would’ve thought you had a little more respect than to try to poach one of mine in broad daylight. In my own office.” Zane only chuckles.

“Come on now, Jessica,” he tuts, “you’ve got a Porsche nine eleven turbo here, but you’re only letting her go ten miles per hour. She might as well be still slumming it in that clinic. It’s a waste. Besides, who’s disrespecting who? I had dibs.”

“Clinic?” Jessica poses in a disinterested tone. 

“The Advocates for Refugee and Immigrant Legal Aid Center,” Daphne chimes in. “I worked there for three years.”

“In the human trafficking victim unit,” Zane adds. “That’s how I first met her. One of my clients’ douchebag brats got caught up in a prostitution bust. Two a.m. in the morning, and I am at some Buschwick police station trying to save the boy’s stupid ass from his dumbass mouth when she walks in. In the span of ten minutes, she dresses down a detective, beats a DA at a game of chicken, and makes a very scary and convincing argument for a civil rights violation suit. I initially thought she was there for one of the other trust fund spawns, but then an officer brings out one of the escorts—a fifteen-year-old girl who didn’t speak a word of English. When Daphne started speaking to her in her native Russian, the poor kid hugged her. Threw her arms around her and held on for dear life. That’s the moment I called dibs.”

Zane’s gaze sweeps over Vallone approvingly, the way you might an admire a pearl necklace a couple ballparks out of your price range. But Vallone’s stare drifts, her blue softening. Donna thinks she might be, for the first time, glimpsing the true Vallone. She is struck by how young and fragile the girl seems. Like a fledging nursing an injured wing.

Jessica promptly corrals Zane to the elevator. “We’re adults, Robert,” she reprimands. “Dibs doesn’t exist beyond the schoolyard.” The offer, however, remains in Vallone’s hands, and Jessica makes no effort to take it from her. Neither does Donna.

“How good?” Donna asks. She stands in the middle of the conference room’s doorway defenseless. Her frenzied demand has faded to a simpering plea. _Don’t._ _Please don’t_. Composed yet unguarded, Vallone smiles.

“I doubt Mr. Specter can beat it,” she answers. She’s right—Harvey probably can’t. However brilliant Vallone is, it would be too outrageous to raise an associate with only a fistful of months on the job to junior partner.

“Harvey will tell you to take it then,” Donna says. “In fact, he’ll call you an idiot if you don’t.”

 _Don’t_ , she thinks simultaneously. _Don’t._

“I imagine he probably will,” Vallone concurs. Her smile grows wider and laughs sweetly, as her eyes drift away again. “But I’ve been called ruder things. Have you ever been called a _perra vil_ by a cartel underboss?”

“No,” Donna denies with a reciprocal grin, “but it sounds positively terrifying. You’ll have to tell me about it in great detail sometime.”

“Terrifying, yes,” Vallone confirms. “But worth it. More than worth it when the kids he can no longer hurt look at you and say, ‘ _Gracias.’”_ Her blue finds its way to Donna.

“Junior partner? Me?” she giggles. “I’d go crazy. Certifiably insane.”

“Really?” Donna blurts out. “I would’ve had you pegged for the ambitious type.” Ambitious and patient. The kind of person who lies in wait with a conniving mask of neutrality. But now the mask has been pulled off, and Donna has found an entirely different kind of soul underneath.

“I am ambitious,” Daphne confesses. She glances down at the offer. “But not for something like this.” Neatly, she folds the paper closed. 

When Harvey asks Donna to procure an apricot confection, Donna goes a little overbroad. Both Harvey and Daphne stare wide-eyed at the three-tiered cake.

“May I ask what the occasion is, Mr. Specter?” Daphne poses, graciously trying to skim over the absurdity of the dessert’s tremendous girth. Harvey is not nearly as courteous.

“Donna,” he rumbles. “What the hell is _this_?”

“You said to get something nice,” Donna replies defensively.

“Something nice,” Harvey snaps. “Not colossal!”

“Daphne just turned down two colossal job offers!” Donna declared. “So you should at least give her a colossal cake!”

“This is for me?” Daphne realizes. “Mr. Spector, you didn’t have to—“

“One,” Harvey interrupts, “stop calling me ‘Mr. Spector’ all the time. It makes me feel like I should be thirty years older and a hundred pounds heavier. Two, just have a piece of the stupid cake.” 

A cute, embarrassed coral blossoms across Daphne’s face, as she shyly accepts a slice from Donna. She takes a tiny bite, and her smile brightens.

“Apricot!” she exclaims. “My favorite! How did you know?”

Desperate men, Donna has learned over the years, have a certain smell. Not pungent BO, though most fraught men have that too. No, it’s the tangy, sour stench of fear. Truly desperate men wear it like a pheromone, and it wafts out from their pores, polluting every molecule of air around them. And the spindly, graying man currently in front of her _reeks_ of it.

“Are you sure Daphne isn’t here?” he squeaks. His twig fingers tug anxiously at the lapels of his ill-fitting suit jacket. “It is extremely important that I—“

“—see her,” Donna finishes nonchalantly. “I heard you the first two times. And, like I told you twice already, if Daphne is here, her time is spoken for. But if you leave your calling card, I’ll set up a meeting for you. The earliest I could get you in is—“

“—six weeks,” the man completes. His razor thin lip curls up, unveiling neat, slightly yellowed teeth. “I heard you the first two times, and I told you I can’t possibly wait that long. I can’t even wait another day! If she’s not here, could you call her then? Call her and tell her that—“

“Mr. Humphrey?” Daphne holds her briefcase against her like a shield. The gaunt man flashes a nervous smile, his puffy eyes widening with the sight of her. Her eyes, however, frost over.

“Daphne, dear, I—“ He takes a hurried step forward, and she hedges a step back. Donna straightens to attention in her seat.

“I don’t believe we have business, Mr. Humphrey,” Daphne deadpans.

“Daphne,” Humphrey all but whimpers. “I—there’s this case—“

“Don’t,” Daphne demands icily.

“D-don’t?” Humphrey stutters. “Daphne—“

“Don’t,” she repeats. She’s shaking, Donna notes. She’s trying to conceal the tremors, but the jasper beads of her bracelet jiggle to the vibration of the miniature earthquake that refuses to be suppressed.

“Don’t,” Daphne continues. “Don’t make me say ‘no.’ Because if you tell me, I’ll have to say it. Walking past you—and therefore walking past whatever poor soul you came here on the behalf—is going to be hard enough. So, _don’t_.”

She then strides on, narrowly avoiding brushing shoulders with Humphrey, and she is nearly around the corner before he, slack-jawed, calls after her.

“Simon told me,” he says weakly. “About your brother. I should’ve known…that you had a reason. After three years, I should know that you are not the type to sell out. You step up. That’s all you ever do, and I should’ve known. I should’ve asked. I’m…sorry. I’m so sorry, Daphne.”

Daphne doesn’t turn around, but for a moment, she pauses.

“I have court,” she murmurs. “Forgive me…but I have to go.” 

Donna doesn’t need to see the blue of her eyes to know that the ice has thawed. The tears ring out clearly like cathedral bells in her voice.

Humphrey hangs around just long enough for Harvey to stumble into the rumble. The gaunt man studies him solemnly.

“Take care of her,” Humphrey advises. “Look after her. She’ll never tell you when she’s hurting. When she needs help. She’ll never make her health a priority, and she’ll try to live only on apricots and three hours of sleep if you let her. So watch over her. Please. She is the most brilliant, dedicated attorney I ever had a hand in rearing. She’s my protégé—the most precious thing I have to give the world.”

It would be superficial to make a simile of Daphne-Humphrey and Mike-Harvey. There is nothing “is to” and “as” about the comparison. Daphne and Humphrey are simply student and teacher. Apprentice and master. But Mike and Harvey—they had evolved from that eons ago. There is no comparison at all. Neither the split or subsequent pain is remotely the same.

But a twist has been tossed into the mystery of Daphne Vallone, and Donna spends a considerable number of hours turning it over in her mind. What makes a devoted knight put down the banner she dearly cherishes and turn mercenary for a cause so contrary to everything she ever stood for? What clots and stops a bleeding heart? Daphne’s sublime blues offer no clues.

Harvey, meanwhile, heeds Humphrey. He starts keeping track of Daphne’s movements. How often she eats, or rather, how often she doesn’t. How she is the first at her desk and the very last to leave. How her smile is laced with something tragic and unspoken.

He keeps track but isn’t sure how to fix it. Daphne’s work product is unparalleled, so there’s no professional grounds to address it, especially when Louis holds her habits up as the gold standard demanded of all associates. And, though she now addresses Harvey by his first name, Daphne still insists upon a clear divide between professional and personal. She keeps conversations focused on work or generic topics like traffic or the latest Trump faux pas, and should the discussion swivel anywhere near home, she excuses herself from the vicinity.

Perhaps this is the reason, Donna concludes, for the look of sheer mortification on Daphne’s face when she comes back from court one morning and finds her workspace flooded with frangipani. The white, gold-centered blooms fill the bullpen with a sweet, soothing fragrance, but Daphne, plucking a card from the bounteous bouquet, looks as if she might be sick.

“Who are they from, Daphne?” Rachel asks, a tinge of envy in her tone. “They’re beautiful.”

“How dare he…!” Daphne fumes. She flees the room for ten minutes and, upon returning, invites anyone who wishes to take one of the pots for themselves.

“There are too many for me to fit in my car,” she justifies. The vultures waste no time in their descent, and by night’s arrival, only one pot remains. Daphne stares it down, perhaps attempting to will it into thin air.

“I like him,” Harvey tells her. Daphne, blinking out of her reverie, looks over her shoulder.

“Excuse me?” she replies. Harvey juts his chin toward the frangipani.

“The man who sent you those,” he clarifies. “I’m guessing he’s not the sort to do things half-assed. He plays full-court press from the get-go. Hard not to admire a man like that.”

“With all due respect, Harvey,” Daphne sighs, “but you’re wrong. He’s a fool who doesn’t care that he’s already fouled out.”

“Did he foul out,” Harvey poses, slipping his hands into pockets, “or is he just down a few points?”

“It’s not just a few,” Daphne corrects.

“Ok,” he concedes, “so he doesn’t know when to quit. But I would rather have a die-hard than quitter on my team any day of the week.”

“Even when quitting is the smarter thing to do?” she counters. Harvey’s lips curve into a somber smirk.

“Smarter,” he muses, “or safer?”

From a dark corner, Donna watches as Harvey exits quietly, leaving Daphne to drink in the heady, floral scent of longing alone.

Donna catches herself more than she would ever admit watching Daphne. Spying on Daphne. But Donna has no other means to gather clues. To sift through the pieces of a carefully constructed visage and unearth the real person. Daphne is not hers to find, Donna knows. There shouldn’t be the poison of entitled wonder coursing in her veins, but it’s there, corrupting her into a sickly shadow. A parched parasite ready to exsanguinate her host. And first blood comes at 7 a.m. on a gray and wet Friday morning outside of the firm.

Donna ducks into an alcove when she spots Daphne besieged by a handsome, fifty-something woman with beautiful beige skin accentuated by a smart Chanel suit of paradise orange.

“Mrs. Chopra,” Daphne greets stiffly, “Is it a family affair? This complete and utter disrespect for my workplace?”

“Well,” the woman begins, “you screen my family’s calls. You’re only home between the hours shortly before dawn, and I can’t imagine you would find it less offensive if I showed up at your brother’s hospital room. So, your workplace must endure the disrespect.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Daphne disputes. “Because you shouldn’t be here at all. Aarav shouldn’t make a scene with his apology flowers. You made it painfully obvious that I am not welcome in your home or near what belongs to you. As did Aarav. I’ve respected that. You ought to at least return the curtsey.” Daphne starts walking again, blue eyes trained fiercely on the revolving glass doors. Mrs. Chopra catches her gently around the elbow.

“If my son loses you,” she confesses, “then I will lose him.”

“Mrs. Chopra—“

“I am the one who told him that you were seeing another man,” Mrs. Chopra forces out. “I’m the one who assumed and presented my assumption as fact. You should have seen his face when he realized the man I had been talking about was your brother. It was like he was dying. Dying right in front of me. That’s the moment I knew—if Aarav loses you, then I will lose him.”

“That’s not my fault,” Daphne says, the heat rising in her voice. “And what happened between Aarav and me isn’t yours. He said things. About my moms, the women who raised me. Who inspired me. He said the kind of things that incinerate bridges. That incinerate people. Am I supposed to forget he took a torch and tried to burn me down?”

Slowly, Mrs. Chopra’s fingers release Daphne’s elbow and slide down her forearm, past her wrist, to her palm. Then, she encloses Daphne’s hand in both of hers.

“Great love…,” she murmurs, “great love, Daphne, does nothing small. Even when it comes to hurt and pain. But the happiness and joy it can bring—those are great too. Greater. And I think you and Aarav have a great love.”

Daphne’s robin egg blue flints away, soaring into the distant, blurring gray.

“I’m not what you wanted from him,” she seems to recall. “You had another woman in mind.”

“You are beautiful, intelligent, and loving,” Mrs. Chopra replies. “No, you don’t look exactly like I had pictured, and some of the details about you are different. But you are everything that really matters.”

“I…” Her blue floating down but still far away, Daphne pulls her hand free. “I have work to do.”

“I’m not going to tell him to stop,” Mrs. Chopra proclaims, as Daphne turns from her. “It’s shameless, I am aware. But I am not going to tell him to stop. I am going to cheer him on. I am going to help him build a new bridge in place of the one that I poured gasoline over. Because I can’t lose my son. Because I will if he loses you.”

Daphne, by now, has melded into the swing of the revolving doors. But, when Donna notices her pausing to caresses frangipani petals, she realizes that the words of the woman in orange have followed Daphne in.

Initially, Donna mistakes Aarav Chopra as Harvey’s last client meeting of the day. He’s got the air of a young mogul about him—handsome, savvy, and brick hard confidence. It’s the twist of exasperation in Daphne’s expression that gives him away.

“You have to go,” Daphne sighs, keeping her distance. “I have work to do.”

“No, you don’t,” Harvey amends. Stepping outside of his office, he commandeers the files in Daphne’s arms and, in exchange, he hands her her purse and coat.

“Harvey?” Daphne whispers. “What—“

“I told you,” Harvey says, grinning, “I admire a guy who plays full court press.” He gives Daphne a small push, and she trips a little in her heels toward Aarav.

“Harvey—“

“Daphne,” Aarav says, “please.” His voice is as deep as Donna expects it to be but not as cocky. It’s breathy and fringing on heartbroken. At once, the indignant defiance deflates from Daphne’s blues, and she acquiesces, tepidly walking to Aarav’s side.

“I don’t want to see you before ten tomorrow,” Harvey barks after the couple. “If I see you before then, you better be handing in your resignation letter.” 

“Careful, Harvey,” Donna warns playfully, “your inner romantic is showing.”

“…I should have played full-court press,” Harvey says suddenly. “Instead of phoning it in, I should’ve gotten off the goddamn bench. I should’ve told him.” 

“He knew Harvey,” Donna assures. “He knew.”

“Did he?” he scoffs. “If he knew, he wouldn’t have run.”

“Maybe,” Donna hedges, “maybe he ran _because_ he knew.”

Harvey doesn’t answer, and the silence is wretched and suffocating.

Donna has all the pieces, or so she thinks, and she fools herself into believing she has the puzzle put together. The mask dismantled, and the true woman unveiled. But then Harvey asks her to make a phone call.

“Daphne’s brother?” Humphrey says.

“Yes,” Donna affirms. “Mr. Specter would like to help with the medical expenses. But you know how Daphne is. If he tells her, she’ll never let him do it.”

“Yeah,” he replies ruefully. “That’s why she probably never told me about Mike. She knew I could never pay her enough to cover the bills, and she didn’t want me to try and deprive the clinic. But I bet your boss has mooched plenty from those fat cats he works for.” Donna’s ears barely register Humphrey’s corny joke. They are too hyper-focused on the name so casually mentioned.

“I-I’m s-sorry,” Donna sputters. “But did you s-say ‘Mike’?”

“Yes,” Humphrey responds, “Mike. Mike Ross—Daphne’s brother.”

The slap fires off like a gunshot. An alarming shade of scarlet explodes onto Daphne’s cheek. Later, Donna will regret it, but right now, she’s too furious to acknowledge contrition. Daphne, for her part, only smirks.

“Mike said you might do that,” she says, rubbing the assaulted skin. Donna’s palm reloads, but the trigger jams. Harvey fists her wrist tightly, resisting her enraged tugs to fire the next round.

“You don’t look anything alike,” he tells Daphne. “Except for the eyes.”

“We’re only half-siblings,” Daphne explains matter-of-factly. “Our parents were best friends. And when my moms decided to have a baby, his parents provided the necessary sperm.”

“He never mentioned you.”

“He says you never asked,” Daphne points out. 

“Why in the hell did he send you?” Donna howls. “What? Did he honestly think it would make up for running away like a little bitch?” Daphne levels a vicious, eviscerating glower at her, blue sharp as dagger points.

“There’s this monster in his brain,” she says. “This massive monster that wants to eat him from the inside out. Chances are good that it will, but if that doesn’t kill him, smart money says the cure will. Chemo takes its time devouring someone alive. He doesn’t want you to see him like that. Doesn’t want you to remember him as the remains of someone who he used to be.”

Blue dulls just a little as it slices to Harvey.

“He didn’t want you to try and save him,” she consoles softly. “He knows how much you hate to lose.” Harvey lets go of Donna’s wrist, and her arm drops to her side like dead weight. The quiet swirls and then dissipates.

“Mike should know by now,” Harvey says. “I don’t lose. Ever.”

At the hospital, Donna and Daphne hang back by the door, as Harvey pulls up a chair to Mike’s bed. He strokes the shortly cropped, slightly dingy blonde hair slowly, coxing Mike’s eyes open. Pure, delicate blue unfurls.

“Hey, puppy,” Harvey croons.

“H..harvey?” Mike rasps. “Harvey…I’m sor-ry—“

“Shh, shh,” Harvey urges. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, rookie.” He leans in and presses his lips lightly against Mike’s temple. “It will be okay.”

The women take that as their cue to leave.

Daphne laughs good-naturedly at the bucket of ice Donna sets on her desk. She arches an eyebrow at the white bow tied around the bucket’s rim.

“Is this a present or an apology?” she snickers. 

“When I apologize,” Donna says, “it’s a priceless present, because so rare am I ever wrong. And I was wrong.”

“But not without reason,” Daphne admits. “If I were you, I would have slapped me too.”

“Oh please,” Donna dismisses. “It is more probable that a bunny will break out taekwondo moves than you slapping someone.”

“You weren’t there when a Triad madam called one of my clients ‘damaged goods,’” Daphne purrs. “After he held me in contempt, the judge said I had one fine right hook.”

“Who are you?” Donna demands, half-joking, half-serious. “Do you carry a cape around in your purse? It’s there right next to the baggie of apricots, isn’t?”

A naked, belly-deep laugh bursts from Daphne’s wide smile. Her blue is sunny and warm, like a brilliant summer day.

“No cape,” she sighs as the giggles subside, “but Mike and I always said we use our powers for good. Freshly minted Harvard grads, we were going to save the world. We were fine with being broke and eating cheap Chinese every night. But then Mike’s grandmother got sick, and nursing homes don’t accept the warm, fuzzy feelings nonprofits prefer to pay you in.”

“So he went into corporate law,” Donna concludes. “He came to work for Harvey.”

“Finding Harvey was an accident,” Daphne chuckles. “You know that walking into that interview room three years ago was a mistake, right? Mike had an interview scheduled with a much smaller firm that specialized in estate planning—mundane but reliable. He got the room number wrong. He’d never forgotten anything before. But that day, he forgets what floor he’s supposed to go to.”

“Must have been meant to be,” Donna supposes. 

“Meant to be,” Daphne hums. “Do you believe in fate? The moon, stars, destiny and all that? I never did. Not after working at the clinic, and seeing the horrors my clients went through. How can a nine-year-old being forced to do things they should have no inkling of until they’re ten years older be fated to be? Destined? It’s too cruel. Too senseless. I don’t believe in fate.”

Her smile flags some but then re-burgeons brighter and trimmed with scintillating blue.

“I don’t believe in fate,” she says. “But I do believe in happy accidents. In luck and chance. And most of all, I believe in choices. Mike walked into that interview room on accident. Met Harvey on accident. They both chose to capitalize on it. Chose each other. Kept choosing each other. And even after he left here, Harvey was the only thing on Mike’s mind. He wanted to make sure that Harvey would be okay. He asked me only to check in. That’s it. But when I did, Harvey was hiring, and I needed a better paying job. Chance and choice.”

Daphne returns Donna’s bucket, white ribbon still intact, the day Mike is released from the hospital. She places it on Harvey’s breakfast bar, allowing Donna to fish out one of the bottles nestled inside.

“Apricot wine?” Donna exclaims. “Really?” Daphne’s brow furrows cutely.

“What?” she asks. “Mr. Nesbitt gave it to me after the Xi case.”

“It’s a lost cause, Donna,” Mike chuckles as Harvey helps him ease down onto the couch. “She’s practically part apricot now. You should’ve seen her spring break junior year—“

“Mike,” Daphne interjects sharply, “don’t you dare!”

“Wait,” Aarav interjects, “I want to hear this. Sounds positively juicy.”

“Oh it was,” Mike affirms. “See, we had gone down to Miami—“ In a flash, Daphne flies over to the couch and claps her hand over Mike’s mouth. Their blue eyes clash and conspire, holding a conversation of blinks and twitches. Any real tension is fleeting, and bubbling blue sparks and glows like fireworks booming against a backdrop of stars.

It’s all anyone can talk about, from the temps to the most senior of partners. And it’s mostly due how to Louis loses it like a toddler in the candy aisle.

“What did you _do_?” Louis screams hysterically. Harvey simply offers up a shit-eating grin, as he laces his fingers under chin.

“What did I do?” he replies. Louis slams his meaty palms onto the chestnut of Harvey’s desk.

“Daphne Vallone just handed in her resignation!” Louis howls. “So what did you do, you pea-brained Neanderthal? How could you let the best goddamn associate our firm has ever seen walk out the door? It was Zane, wasn’t it? No, Nesbitt. It was _Nesbitt_. That goddamn, Dumbo-eared rat! I told him to stay on his putrid side of the Atlantic! Well, he better be goddamn ready to get his. He’s about to get Litt the hell up!”

As Louis makes blind charge out of Harvey’s office, Donna slinks in.

“When should we tell him?” she muses. 

“Oh, we don’t,” Harvey replies mischievously. “He’ll figure out by next week’s deposition for the Redcliff lawsuit. The clinic is representing the workers.”

“Please tell me that the deposition is being recorded,” Donna squeals. “The moment Louis sees Daphne sits down across the table from him should be immortalized for our eternal viewing pleasure.”

“Already on it, Donna,” Harvey says, “already on it. Now, give me just a second. I got to check in on Mike. Puppy’s going stir crazy and keeps asking when he get back in here. I’m running out of ways to say until the doctor goddamn says so.”

As he reaches for the phone, Donna breathes in the understated calm that has settled in. The wounds are still mending, but healing is no longer a farfetched fantasy, recovering no longer a cemented impossibility. Catching a glimpse of the sky outside, splattered with retreating storm clouds, Donna decides the speckles of emerging of blue are her choice hue, in no small part due to how, even after eons of gray, it manages to find its way back round.


End file.
